Hands 10 O'clock, 2 O'clock (9 to 5)
but actually 3pm to 8pm.
I get lazy and use a finger to steer. The rig coasts because it's heavy and cigarette cravings nibble tenderly at my voice box, projecting a subtle moan. My head starts to reel, back and forth my eyes bob like dead fish in a wave pool. The pavement is vast, black as a volcanic beach; dashed with life-like turtles it sprawls as a dropped piece of fabric. Fences of trees frame the billowing landscape and I am lonely. Yearning wraps itself against the walls of my throat and I am choking. Breathless, a poorly circulated mind flashes faces before my eyes. There I cringe, begin to moan, fighting the strength of memory--squinting--boiling up from my soul, a howl breaks: a wailing, rocking, succubus singing cry. A lonely cat that moans on the fences overlooking empty backyards of suburbia, I am she. Veiled in black, in the cab of my car, I allow the welling of my emotions with an aching grip to hold my heart out for the moon to judge--the soul of the lonesome, the eye who treats the troubled. I cannot stand the glare (too bright, too shining); I'm not hungry enough for its fullness. I ashamedly retract, become compact to keep out of sight, to where I send a distant and abstract message to a sleeping lover. He never gets it.